


I Won't Let You Fall Apart

by dynamicsymmetry



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Choking, Depression, Dirty Talk, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, F/M, Facials, Fingerfucking, Hair-pulling, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mutual Masturbation, Outdoor Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Verbal Humiliation, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 20:49:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5554823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been months since Daryl took a bullet for Beth at Grady, and she can't let go. Suffering can't change anything, but that never made a difference. But something is changing all the same. It might be light breaking through - or only deeper darkness. And not just for her.</p><p>(Set in an AU version of the Everything Where it Belongs universe. Because I can.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if I could fix myself

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help it and someone asked me to write some Brick so here we are. 
> 
> As the summary says, this is set in a version of the [_Everything Where It Belongs_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5398022/chapters/12469793%22) universe where Daryl hasn't found his way to the ASZ and Beth is considerably less psychologically stable. Whether or not Daryl is actually dead in this version of events is up to you. Regardless, he will not be making an appearance. 
> 
> This is mostly a smut outlet, but assuming I keep poking at it - and right now it doesn't have prime priority - it will probably be plotty smut because that's how I roll. Also messed up smut because it's set in a universe where no one gets to be happy or well adjusted basically ever. 
> 
> Check the tags. Rick does something very not good here. Rick is also not okay, for essentially the same reasons.
> 
> Theme song: [Nine Inch Nails' "The Fragile". ( _Still_ version)](https://youtube.com/watch?v=B-o8Mj0UXiQ)
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. ❤️

Of all the things she never expected to have the capacity for, the one that stands out the most is how good she's gotten at torturing herself. 

Sure, there's the rest. The other things. Since Atlanta she's killed, and in ways far uglier than she truly thought she would ever have to. She's gone without food, water, rest for lengths of time she would have believed impossible for her; she's strong but there's no way in hell she's _that_ strong, or so she would have claimed. She's eaten things that once would have made her vomit. She's walked when she should have dropped limp into the road miles ago. 

She lost him and she’ll never get him back, and she didn't lie down and let the herd take her. She didn't curl up the trunk with him and put her gun to her head and sleep forever. She lost him and it was her fault, and she didn't die.

She wonders now if that was part of it, why she kept going and never fell. If she wouldn't give herself that escape. Didn't deserve it. She doesn’t get to follow him, because he’s out of it. He’s free. He's not starving or parched or terrified. He's not exhausted. He's not numb in the once-warm core of himself that refused to ever stop being human.

He's not hurting anymore. 

But now all those myriad ways in which she can suffer are gone. There's food. There's water. She lies down at night in a soft bed, in safety. She knows the safety is a bad joke of an illusion but for the moment in practical terms it's real enough. They're all right. He's gone but they made it. There might be any number of new hells ahead of them in the trackless future but that one is now behind them.

She shouldn't have left it. 

In the dark, curled in her bed with her dry eyes locked open, staring at nothing. The unnatural silence outside, the interior silence of a house full of sleeping people. Never had that in the prison. Last time was the farm before the farm died in fire and they fled into the first of so many older hells. 

That was a dead girl. 

This girl squeezes her eyes shut and clenches her muscles in bitter waves and hates every single one. She interweaves her own fingers, and she thinks about his so thick and strong as they threaded with hers and she wants to strip her hands to the bone. Perhaps this is very wrong of her, perhaps she should let go, perhaps she should go talk to Denise and see if there's something she can do about it because she _knew_ him and _knows_ him and knows that he wouldn't want her to do this to herself. It would upset him so much. It would make him so sad. If he couldn't live, he would want her to do more than survive.

Maybe for the both of them. 

But she can't. She can't do it. She tries and it feels like a farce, like an ill-fitting mask. Helping on the wall, assisting with tracking inventory. Working in the gardens. She stands in the sun all clean in her new clothes, pretty young girl with her whole life still ahead of her even at the end of the world, and she tries so hard to smile and talk to people and make friends and _settle in_ and _adjust_ but she's failing and somehow she knows she's failing worse than any of them. 

Except maybe him.

~

She has a dream.

She didn't start having it until they walked through the gates, and it began the very first night. Prior to the Zone she didn't dream at all, at least not that she could recall; probably a mercy. It might have been an escape but almost certainly not, and she suspects that this dream is her own way of making up for the other suffering she's not doing anymore. It's her way of telling herself that she _can't_ escape, that she can try to lie all she wants but she’ll never be able to fool herself, and she’ll never find her own forgiveness for what she did.

Almost every night, almost always exactly the same. 

She's on a platform. It's the Zone, the big open space in front of the gates. She's standing there, on _display,_ and everyone is gathered all around her and staring up at her, their faces blank and utterly strange in sunlight far too thin and white and sharp. It's light that leeches all the color out of the world, burns away all the shadows, leaves her completely exposed. She stands and she trembles as nausea churns her belly; she desperately wants to get down, to hide herself from all those unblinking gazes, but of course she can't. Of course. That's the whole point. 

A voice she doesn't recognize, someone she can't see. Floating around her, possibly without any body at all. It's not like they would need one, given what they're here to do to her. 

_Look at this stupid worthless bitch. Look at her. How weak she is. She's so useless. She’s a waste. She's nothing but a burden to drag around. It's obvious. Everyone get a good view, because this is what it looks like when weak people take advantage of strong people and destroy everything._

_She's not built for this world and you all know it. Everyone knows it. She's nothing. She's just another dead girl. Hasn't got the sense to lie down and be dead. She's a shit-eating parasite all coiled up in their guts. Sooner or later she’ll get everyone around her killed but she’ll just keep going. She doesn't care. Wants to think she does but she's always used people to keep herself alive. She’ll walk over their fucking corpses when she should have died for real a long time ago._

She wakes up shaking and dry-eyed and the next night it happens again, almost exactly the same. 

Almost.

~

Everyone else is gone for the day and she's in the kitchen alone, standing in front of the sink and washing some plates and silverware - every house comes equipped with a dishwasher but people are requested to limit their usage - when she remembers, and she remembers how it was different.

The kitchen in the house where she grew up was all old wood and bright walls, shining when clean but not gleaming, and comfortable. It was always the warmest room in the house and its air was thick with the scent of rosemary and oregano and garlic, and it felt like a place where generations’ worth of cooking had been done, because it was. She loved it, loved helping Mama with the dishes while Shawn and Maggie regarded it as the most odious of chores, Mama would wash and she would dry and they would sing, her own voice smoother and sweeter but both of theirs intertwining in a harmony that was more beautiful for all its dissimilar components. 

She loved that kitchen. 

This one is all chrome, all granite, all stainless steel and white tile. It's very shiny. It's polished and perfect in every line and angle, constructed according to microscopic levels of attention for people wealthy enough to care about things like that - the energy required to care being a luxury in itself. It's cold, even with late morning sun streaming in through the big windows over the breakfast table, and looking at it is like pressing her cheek against something hard and slick.

She hates it. 

But the water pressure is respectable and therefore oddly enjoyable, and it pummels her hands. It's hypnotic and it mitigates some of her hatred, smooths out its edges, and when she closes her eyes she can almost pretend she's back in that house they left, the place that was ripped away from them, and she didn't lose everything. 

She didn't get people killed. 

She doesn't sing much anymore but she's half-consciously muttering under her breath, and the words are slipping into a rhythm she might recognize. Maybe. She hates this too, because part of her is above it and aware and knows she’ll leave it, and the world as it is will backhand her across the face, but for now she _can_ get away, she can slip into the dream of-

On the platform with all of them gathered around her. Well over a hundred people, staring at her from all sides. She manages to scan their faces before it's too much and she has to look away and down at her boots on the pale wood, her face and ears and neck blazing. She doesn't see anyone she knows in the packed crowd, and she has no idea whether or not that's good.

Here's the voice, ready with its torrent of abuse. 

But it's not like usual.

Same voice. Same tone. Except somehow not; it still has that mocking lilt, almost sing-song, but there's heat in it that she's never heard before. A kind of low huskiness even as its volume hasn't dropped at all. 

_Look at this little slut._

She gasps, her hands abruptly motionless under the faucet, fork clutched in a quivering fist. 

_Look at her. Everyone see? Looks so innocent, doesn't she? Sweet, innocent girl. That's a lie. She’s a liar. She's a slutty little bitch and she wants to get fucked. She wants a good hard dicking. She’ll do anything for it. Anything to get all her tight holes stuffed full of cock._

It happened. The recollection is suddenly so clear - except she's not sure now, can't look ahead and see what's coming. It's unspooling in front of her like a movie reel and she can't look away, her hands loosening in the soapy water, her breath coming in shallow heaves. Not quite panting. Fear twisting at her diaphragm but also…

Heat. 

She hasn't gone here in weeks. Maybe months. Maybe once or twice at Grady but her mind was all the fuck over the place, running around every corner, mapping every possible point of advantage. Not with Daryl. Not that she can recall, anyway; there was really no hope of privacy with him, at least not enough to allow for _that._

Her cunt has been this purely functional _thing._ Her clit might as well have not existed. 

Except now heat is flooding south, her lungs jumping against her heart and her breath twitching, and she grips the edge of the sink and bites her lip, a tiny little whimper escaping between the pressed seam of her lips. 

Not like this. 

_Christ, get a load of this._ Body. All at once, a body. At least a hand, curving fingers and a big palm shoving between her thighs from behind and cupping her, fingertips applying mercilessly rhythmic pressure to the part of her she's almost completely forgotten. _She loves it. Pussy so wet she's soaking through her jeans._

Was never like this anyway, when she still tended to this at all. Not that it was always _romantic;_ for the most part she didn't want rose petals and satin sheets, and more than once what surged through her head was dark and rough, someone powerful looming over her and grabbing her by the hips and _fucking_ her with a cock so big it stretched her nearly to the point of pain, but it was never like _this,_ every part of her clenched and on shameful fire as a crowd watches her cunt fondled by an unseen stranger’s hand. 

And it feels so good.

She doesn't want to think about _why._ Fuck that. She's messed up enough these days that there doesn't even _need_ to be a goddamn _why._ She should suffer, she's a weak-cored piece of shit anyway, but now this new part of her is on the chopping block, and it's what she deserves and she’ll take it. She doesn't even get to be normal like this. That's fine.

No one is here. 

She cuts off the water and fumbles for the towel on the counter next to her. No one is here, and she's not thinking about it. She should suffer but she's so tired of hurting, it's been so _long,_ and her breath catches as she braces herself against the counter with one hand and slips the other beneath the waistband of her jeans and the elastic of her panties, pushing down over her mound. 

Her hips jerk forward and a squeak forces out of her when her fingertips graze her clit, like the latent energy of those weeks and weeks and maybe _months_ of neglect have all gathered into a single swollen point between her legs. For a few seconds she's actually not sure she can, not sure she can _take_ it because it almost hurts, but that's what kicks her forward; she finds it again and presses down on the slick nub with her middle finger - and it's not just a nub, it feels _big,_ packed full of blood with every nerve ending a knotted ball, and now it's pouring down into her lips, squeezed by the crotch of her jeans, fat and throbbing when she nudges her finger between them.

It's like opening floodgates. 

She could feel her own wetness before, the slickness gathered around her clit, but she's fucking _drenched,_ dipping a finger into a lake of her own juices, and she hears a squelch as she awkwardly pushes deeper and drops her head between her shoulders with a heavy moan. 

_Get those legs apart, slut. Let me feel you._

She does, wider so she can withdraw and push in again, but it's almost impossible this way, and she lets out a frustrated whine between her teeth, loose strands of hair hanging in her face and sweat damp at her hairline. There's an echo in the kitchen, the ricochet of sound off all that polished gleam, and everything is louder than it should be, but no one is here and she's fucked up and she's going to have this. 

Make herself take it.

 _That's it. Oh, you little whore. Hear this? So fucking_ easy. _She wants it so bad, that dirty pussy’s already dripping._

She can't. Not like this. Back up to her clit, pressing and circling with two fingers, panting through her clenched jaw as her knees lock and her thighs begin to tremble, and fuck, she's already so _close,_ she's-

Hand on the counter next to hers. 

Not slapped. No impact. No attempt to scare her. Just _there,_ and then warmth that isn't sourced from her body, tall thick solidity at her back, strong fingers closing over her hip and hot breath in her ear as her own ices over in her throat. 

“Don't fuckin’ move.”

This is a dream. This is a dream within a dream, a whole new level of torment, horrified shame burning through her gut like acid, because Rick fucking Grimes walked in on her getting herself off in the goddamn kitchen and he's not the kind of person to spread that shit around but he'll _know,_ and he-

But he never would have done this if that was all. Never would have gotten this close. 

Wouldn’t be working at her fly while his other hand closes over her wrist and pins her to the counter. Wouldn't be rolling his hips against her ass so she can feel the hard length trapped in his pants. Wouldn't be grazing his teeth over the shell of her ear, and wouldn't be shaking with silent laughter as she whimpers and stiffens and wriggles in his grip. Wouldn't be hooking his fingers over her waistband and yanking downward until her jeans and panties are halfway to her knees.

It's not like. Not like Grady. It's not. It's Rick. Rick is Rick. It's not. 

It's really _not,_ is the thing. 

She knows what she's expecting. She's shivering, thighs pressing together in advance of his invasion, and she's not even sure whether or not she's trying to fight him, but it doesn't come; instead he's taking her other wrist and directing her hand back between her legs, pressing it against her sopping lips.

“Keep goin’, honey.” Harsh whisper; he barely sounds like himself. “Just like you were.”

_Get your pants off, whore. Everyone's going to see. Everyone’s going to see what you are. You're going to show them. Get your pants off and get on your back and spread your slut legs as wide as you can. Let them see your wet little pussy, filthy girl._

Her fingers are shivering even harder than the rest of her and they stutter as they circle but she does it, rubs lightning into her cunt. The side of her hand grazes her inner thigh and it's slick, and when she nudges a finger between her lips again a wave of pleasure pulses through her and a rush of wet trickles down her knuckle. 

A tight breathless _ohfuck_ hisses out of her before she can stop it. Rick releases his own groan, and she hears the clink of his belt, the sound of a zipper, and she seizes up even as her fingers keep moving and thinks _I can't get away from him, I can't get away, he's going to put it in me and I can't stop him._

_Good._

But he still doesn't. There's a pause, only the sticky sounds of her fingers working her clit, and then she feels him and he feels _huge:_ The hot smooth skin of his cock rubbing against her lower back as he rocks his hips, and the cool of the air on her when he leaves streaks of precome behind. 

“Feel that, sweetheart?” His lips kiss words into her ear, and she trembles and sobs. “Huh? You feel me?” His hand tightens on her wrist. “Tell me you do.”

 _Say it, little whore._ “I feel you.” Strained whisper, almost choked. She does, and her belly is a twisted mass of fear and need and tears are stinging her eyes, and they're all looking at her. All watching. They all know what she is. 

“Not gonna fuck you, honey. You keep playin’ with your pussy. Do that for me.”

She does. Presses, slow and fast and slow again, widens her stance and plunges her finger into her cunt, squelch seeming to snap off the walls as she fucks herself and Rick mutters _Christ, yeah_ and the wet smacking sound of his hand jerking his cock joins it. Joins her.

Harmony.

_Spread those lips. That's it. Jesus, look at you. You'd take anyone. You'd take them all. Every cock you could get and you'd still want more. Get your fingers in your pussy, you slutty bitch. Fuck yourself like you want to get fucked._

Fingers digging into her hip, tugging. “Gimme your ass. Press back.” No hesitation. She does, feels his shaft sliding between her cheeks as he grinds against her, panting, so long and hard and then she's spreading her legs even wider, pressing her lips apart, biting back the words gathering behind her teeth. What she wants to ask him. Beg him to do. _Please._

_Take it in your ass. Your mouth. All the come you can gobble up, slut._

Another tidal wave of shame. Just more heat. _Give me your cock, Rick. Fuck me like a cheap fucking whore._ Fuck _me._

“Sweetheart… Fuck, that's _so_ good. You gonna come?” He's humping her, fucking the crack of her ass and painting her tailbone with warm precome, and it's not enough, she wants it, she's a wretched filthy girl and she _wants_ it, wants his cock in her slutty little pussy, and she keens through her bared teeth and arches back, dripping fingers blurring over her clit. 

Nails hook into her skin and she yelps. “Say it, honey. You gonna come all over your little fingers? You gonna do that?”

“Yeah.” She is. Right on the edge, teetering. Lifting her ass off the platform and working herself with both hands, juices pooling beneath her, fucking and rubbing and curving her fingers up against that spot at the top of her wall - the one she hasn't forgotten. “I'm gonna come.”

_In front of everyone. Show them all, bitch._

“Sweet girl, gonna come for me?”

She doesn't answer. There's no answer to give him. She shoves herself against him, shaking and tensing and letting go with a sharp cry that rings off all that cold chrome and polished rock, gushing over her hand and sobbing as it doesn't _stop,_ doesn't release her, drags her through as Rick groans and shudders and shoots thick, hot ropes over her ass and the small of her back, his knuckles rough on her skin as he finishes himself and slumps forward, his hand slipping away from her wrist. 

She stares dully at it as her vision clears. She's going to have a bruise. Circling, to match her bracelets. She won't be able to hide it. People will see. Everyone will see.

She's not sure she cares. She doesn't think so.

Rick abruptly shoves himself away from her, and she feels his softening cock slide over her skin before it vanishes. He's still breathing hard. Sound of his zipper. She could turn now, and she could try to think of something to say, but there's nothing. Her sticky fingers are pressed against a clit gone numb, and streaks of his come are cooling on her back, and there's nothing. 

Everyone is gone. She's alone. No one is here to see what she really is. 

Except him.

“Beth.” 

She has no idea how to even begin to read his tone. The tension wound through it could mean any number of things and probably all of them simultaneously. She's half expecting him to try to apologize, and if he does that she thinks she might turn after all, turn on him and make a concerted effort to break his nose.

“Please.” She's not sure where she gets the breath from. The source of her voice - even hoarse and ragged - is another mystery. She hunches over the counter, her hand falling limply away from her cunt, and she hauls in air and does what she can with it. “Please just go.”

He hesitates. She thinks she might have to say it again. 

But then he's gone. 

For a long time she doesn't move at all. The tap is dripping onto stainless steel and it's like a drumbeat in the center of her head, countering the pounding of her heart. She feels wrung out. She feels empty. Thin as dishwater.

Her cheeks are dry.

Finally she fumbles for the towel and does an awkward job of wiping off her back and ass, straightens, pulls up her pants. She stands there for a moment, looking down at the pale blue towel in her hand. Except for a smear of what might be tomato sauce on one corner, it looks clean. Just wet. 

They could have that in common. 

She tosses it on the counter. After another moment or two, she finishes the dishes. 

She's tired of hurting. But she's nowhere near done. And as long as she keeps finding new ways to do it, she can continue indefinitely. And she won't think about _him._ He's not here. 

He's just gone.


	2. it's something I have to do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to stress that there is nothing whatsoever redeeming about this. This is full-on Sunny Id. That said, thank you for being here. ❤️

_Don't think about it._

Yeah, well, that's easier said than done. Easier said than done when even after she wiped off her back and ass she could still feel him there, hot ropes of come spattered over her skin, thinner smears of precome across her tailbone. She finished the dishes, went upstairs, and took the longest, hottest shower she's taken since they got here. She leaned against the tile, goosebumping in the shock of the heat, hissing as it prickled all down her shoulders and spine. Standing there for what felt like hours. Slipping down to the floor and wrapping her arms around her knees and lowering her head until water rained off the ends of her hair. 

His cock in the crack of her ass. Laughing in her ear like that. Wet smack as he jerked himself off in time with the squelch of her fingers in her pussy. Smell of his sweat and the thicker, sharper smell of his come. 

_Sweet girl, gonna come for me?_

She could have reached back and coated her fingers with it, licked it up. He might have liked that. Kicked off her jeans and turned around and hopped up on the counter, spread her legs wide and used what he left on her back to slick herself for a second round. Not that she needed the help, she was so fucking wet. Wet and ready for him. _Whore._

She squeezed her eyes shut and moaned. 

_Don't think about it._

Okay, sure. She's fine. As fine as she ever gets. Hair still damp from the shower, coming downstairs and grabbing a plate of lukewarm mac & cheese from the kitchen, and if people are shooting her looks about how long she took and how much hot water she used, she's making an executive decision to not give a fuck. The sun is going down and the light in the living room is warm and comfortable. It’s one of the few places she feels close to okay anymore, because in the last light of a summer day with the lamps on like they are, it reminds her of the farm in a way that's almost cruel. 

And she wants it. All the time.

Can handle it better than _his_ knife stuffed into the bottom of her pack.

She curls up by the window and eats, alone and in silence, and while they come and go around her - Michonne in the hall talking to Rick about the logistics of patrols, Maggie and Carol discussing supply runs and the state of the stores - they let her be that way. One thing she’ll give them a huge amount of credit for: by now they get it, can recognize when she wants to be left to herself, though they're also not fools and not oblivious, and she's certain they can tell something is more off than usual. 

Though _usual_ is already pretty goddamn _off._

Nothing to be done. She can function. That's all anyone can ask of anyone these days. 

But Rick passes her on the way to the back, and without meaning to she glances up, fork halfway to her mouth, and sees the look in his eyes. Is trapped by it. Deer in headlights, the sights of a rifle.

Not in them. Behind them. Hidden. For her alone. 

Something’s been broken open, and she doubts very much that either of them can close it. Doubts very much that he wants to. 

She knew it was in him. She knew all along. Maybe she was waiting to see what exactly would bring it out. How hard, how fast. How much it's going to hurt. 

How much she’ll want.

~

She's still not sure of the order of events.

The back of his head blew open, spattered blood over her. Over Rick, his neck and his mouth. Hers too. She tasted it. He crumpled, fell in a boneless heap into the spreading pool of his blood, and Rick’s gun roared, drowned out her own sobbing scream. But she has no idea of the sequence. It seemed to happen all at once. The application of linear time broke down and there was only blood and noise congealing together into dense swirling chaos. 

She has to know. 

So her mind plays it over and over for her, frame by frame, and she stands there and watches it, analyses it, traces lines and circles over it like someone drawing up the plays in a football game. The anatomy of the end of her world. Over and over, not every night but more often than not, sometimes melting into the dream of that public humiliation, the abuse she so richly deserves shot at her like bullets and bolts until she's bleeding tears. 

She needs this. She gives it to herself because she needs it. At the end of it she only gets a couple of hours of real sleep, but she sleeps well. 

Normally. 

Except tonight it's not normal. Tonight she stands there with blood on her mouth and the marker in her hand and she proceeds with her analysis, watching the fall and the explosion of blood and Dawn’s head jerking back, cycling it around, watching it again, licking his blood off her lips and considering trajectories and force and inertia and all the elements of physics, and all at once the world breaks open and slams down around her like a collection of guillotines, and it's all those blank faces, all upturned and unblinking as they stare up at her on the platform, and she's naked and bent over a small square table with her hands bound behind her back, rope chafing her wrists, her tits mashed against her ribcage and unsanded wood painfully rough on her chin, the edge of the thing cutting into her hipbones and belly.

Hot sun on her back. Heat everywhere. She whimpers, shifts her feet and squeezes her eyes shut. 

It's like a script. She already knows where this is going. 

_Look at this slutty little girl._

The voice is familiar now. Burning into her ears. Her chest. 

Burning everywhere. 

_See this?_ Big rough hand slapping her inner thighs and she jumps, squeaks, spreads them without thinking and whimpers again. Whimpers louder when equally big rough fingers force themselves between the lips of her pussy and press them open. Christ, she's so _hot. See how fucking wet she is? Shit, she wants it so bad. Dirty whore, wants to take it in front of everyone._

Hand abruptly at her head, fingers curled in her hair and dragging her up so hard and so fast that pain lances down her neck into her shoulders. _Bet she’d take it in her mouth, too. Same goddamn time._ Salt, rough skin, and what feels like four fingers prying their way past her lips, heavy on her tongue. Thumb on her jaw, wrenching her open. _All her holes. Feel that, bitch?_

Fingers at her entrance, so thick. How many hands? Fuck, how many _hands_ are on her? Then _in_ her in a single deep thrust, stretching her so hard they must be nearly tearing her, and she shrieks around the fingers stuffed into her mouth as both cruel hands start to fuck her, drool running down her chin and her juices dripping down the insides of her thighs. Vise-like grips on her thighs, pinning them apart, and she sobs as those thick digits pump in and out of her pussy and that awful _familiar_ voice laughs. 

_This is all you are. You get it, bitch? You're a set of tight holes and you know you love it. Look at you, you can't get enough of it, your slutty pussy and those fat cocksucker lips. You’ll get it._

_What you need. I'll give it to you. Give it to you till you're screaming._

_Sweet girl, gonna come for me?_

She's gasping, nearly coughing, writhing herself awake with the air cool on her naked skin and the sheets wrapped around her ankles, and of course he's there, of _course_ he’s there, solid wall of muscle behind her with the firm lump of his cock pressing into her bare ass, the rough of his jeans, long fingers working so deep in her and his breath hot and damp in her ear. 

Laughing.

“You awake, honey? Was wonderin’ what it'd take.” 

Teeth at her neck, a grin as he rolls his hips and grinds against her. Oh, fucking _hell_ \- she whines his name and he clamps his other hand over her mouth, hissing. 

“Keep quiet, baby. You keep your mouth shut. You wake anyone up, you are _not_ gonna like what happens.”

Oh, but she would. She does. Spreading her legs wider for him - she likes all of this. She's a slut, her dream judges were totally correct, and she fucking _loves_ it.

“There you go. Yeah, you know you want it. Ah, honey, your little pussy’s so _tight_.” Wet flick of his tongue just beneath her ear, lapping at her sweat, and she moans against his cupped palm. “Jesus, you a virgin? No one ever have this pussy before? Kinda hard to believe, the way you were earlier. Goin’ at yourself like a damn slut.”

She is. That's exactly what she is. She maneuvers her mouth open and licks at his hand, and he laughs again, gratingly delighted. “ _Fuck,_ yeah, you slutty girl. You wanna come?” Deeper, curving, hooked rapidly upward into her wall. “You wanna come all over my fuckin’ hand, sweetheart?”

She nods, frantic jerks of her head, because she's so _close,_ clutching at the sheet and fumbling behind her for his hip, thrusting her ass back against him. He knew. In the kitchen, and after. Saw her and he knew what to do. Knew not to stop. 

Knew what she needs. 

“C’mon, then. You come for me. You dirty little slut, show me how much you love it, show me-”

All it takes is a brush of his thumb over her clit and she's coming like a firework going off, her whole body arching forward in a spine-twisting spasm as she yells against his hand, and he tightens his grip on her, tightens everything until it hurts, growling at her to show him, show him what a filthy whore she is, _don't even try to tell me this isn't everything you want._

Except it's not. And he knows it. 

She's still shuddering, still gasping for breath when he yanks his fingers free and seizes her hips, shoves her onto her back and swings a leg over her straddle her chest. Clink of his belt and she's staring up at him in the near-total darkness, nothing but a looming, massive form pinning her to the bed, and then she _smells_ him, just like before, thick and dark and slightly sharp - sweat and something far deeper. Pulsing heat on her cheeks; she thinks vaguely that she's never been close to a dick like this before, never had it shoved practically in her face and this is not how she ever anticipated it happening, and her lips are parting even as he grips her jaw and drags it down. 

“Open wide, honey. You're gonna take it all now. Ah, _fuck,_ good girl…” Just like before but so much closer, the same wet smack as he jerks himself and then his harsh grunt and his fingers cutting her teeth into her as he releases hot and thick over her cheek, nose, chin - salt-bitter onto her tongue. She swallows instinctively, gags, opens wider as he gives her another spurt of it and groans like old pain. 

And he told _her_ to be quiet. 

But then he is. Still gripping her, holding his dick, breathing hard. His face is lost in shadow. He's a silhouette of empty space, and she licks his come off her lips, hands loose by her sides, and feels nothing at all. 

She's sore, cunt burning, cheeks and jaw aching and her head pounding with the blood surging through her, and she feels nothing. 

Finally. 

Except she thinks he might be about to say her name again, and she grits her teeth; if he does… She doesn't want him to. Doesn't want that at fucking _all._ Doesn't want to hear how he’ll say it. What might be in that single syllable, whispered into the dark. 

Doesn't want to say his. Maybe it's better, right now, if there aren't any names. 

He doesn't speak. He climbs off her, and she can see his hands moving, hear the sound of his zipper and then his belt as he kneels back on the edge of the bed. His face is invisible, but she knows he's not looking at her. Beyond that, she has no idea. 

She remains motionless, almost limp, as he pushes to his feet and stands there for a few seconds. He is looking down at her now. She feels the pressure of his gaze, like the ghost of his fingers on her jaw, blunt nails digging into her cheeks. She went to bed naked like she expected this and now she's spread out before him, was spread out _under_ him, and he has to know that he could have taken anything he wanted from her and she wouldn't have tried to stop him. 

She lifts a hand and slides it through the come streaked over her face, numbly thoughtful. He only took this. He restrained himself. In the sickest way possible, she supposes he was merciful. 

_Don't be._

She starts to suck her fingers clean. She's still sucking when he closes the door behind him.

She doesn't dream anymore. 

But she also doesn't sleep.


	3. it's just that nothing seems worth saving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to get back to this for a while. Was pretty sure I would. Now I have. 
> 
> What I've written in EWiB since I started this has stretched me in terms of where I'm willing to go and how awful I'm willing to get. In my opinion, this is very awful. The "dubious consent" tag _definitely_ applies. In my head consent is (miserably) present but you could read this as it not really being present at all. It could be read as a violent rape fantasy acted out, or it could be read as the closest you can get to actual violent rape without completely going there. 
> 
> Starting to get a sense of where this is going and what its arc is, which is fun. I feel like I have a better grasp of things when I have a definitive ending. 
> 
> Additional note: this ended up being a mirror/companion piece in some ways to [chapter 8 of _Flying Like a Stream of Thunder,_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3245549/chapters/10949039) my relentlessly unhappy and unhealthy Rickyl thing. Very similar situation, mood, setting, pacing, themes. Which I think is kinda neat. There's also other mirroring stuff going on that I can't talk about yet. Neater.
> 
> Anyway. ENJOY you sick bastards ❤️

For a full three weeks after he killed Shane, Rick was waking up with blood on his hands. 

On his lips. In his mouth. Sticky and slick between his fingers, congealing in the cracks of his cuticles and beneath his nails. Staining. Still half asleep, he would dry-wash them, and it wouldn't do any good. Just spread it around. It shone dark in the last of the firelight. He understood then that it was permanent, that you don't kill a brother without it following you around for the rest of your fucking life. 

Long after it faded and they were merely his hands again, dirty and maybe a little bloodstained but not with _that,_ he sat awake and thought about the story of Cain and Abel, jealous Cain luring his brother into the fields and soaking the earth with his blood. God saw them. God knew, even if He played it like He didn't at first. There were consequences. There was a mark. 

But wasn't _he_ Abel in that little reenactment? Wasn't he just doing what he had to do? 

He was, wasn't he? 

He was. 

So then for a while it stopped happening as much, and then it stopped happening altogether. He had a new life to build. New world, such as it was: tiny, fragile, but his. He let it go, along with so many things. Thought so. Really believed it.

But of course there's always _until._

~ 

This is risky. He doesn't give a fuck. Far as he can tell, neither does she, and that's good. Whatever _good_ can possibly mean in this context, where everything is hideous, where he can barely stand to occupy his own body, where he licks his lips and he tastes Daryl’s blood and he thinks about blood soaking the ground and blood pooling on the floor of a hospital hallway, and what the fuck does it matter if he wasn't the one who fired the first shot? _She_ blames herself, tells herself it was her fault. Chants it in her mind, over and over, stands in judgment over herself and finds herself guilty. 

He can punish her for it. 

His hand snaps out and seizes her by the hair, by the ponytail, jerks her head back so hard and sudden that he hears a bone in her neck pop. He's not merciful, not interested in sparing her; he catches her with his other hand on her shoulder and hauls her back against him, grip still tight around the elastic, strands of hair snagged between his fingers and the band. Her neck is pulled into an arch that has to be painful, difficult to breathe through, and as he closes his hand over her throat and squeezes, she stops breathing entirely with a weak wriggle. Sags against him. 

Which is nice, because he can roll his hips against the sweet curve of her ass and make her feel how hard he is. 

How sickeningly hard he is. Because he _is_ sick. He's monstrous. He tastes blood again, glances down, and there's Daryl lying in a spreading pool of it on the forest floor, staring up with a neat hole in his head and unblinking eyes. Not dead eyes. Focused, sharp. 

Watching them. 

_God, please._

He tightens his hand on her throat - fuck, she'll almost certainly have bruises and not all of him hates the thought of that by any means - and bares his teeth against the shell of her ear as a frightened gurgling sound escapes her. “No one out here, sweetheart. No one’s gonna hear you scream. If they do, they're gonna assume it's none of their business.” Cruel jerk of her hair and she tries and fails to sob. Her chest is hitching, every part of her trembling as she struggles for air. “You're gonna be quiet though. Aren't you? Gonna be a good little slut for me.” He grins. “Might even like it.” 

He fucking ambushed her. She didn't ask for this. She's trying to fight him. Not much, not _really,_ but she is. But she came out here with him. It was her idea, to go out and check the snares. When he volunteered to come she met his eyes and he's pretty sure he didn't imagine what he saw there. It's not like they've done this more than a few times, but he's getting a sense of the silent language she wants to employ, the signs and signals. 

She asked for this. Some part of her needs it. Wants it. Wants to get away. Wants to be _sent_ away. Wants someone to make her into nobody. Nothing. 

Never really could have been anyone other than him. Because he wakes up and he's covered in blood, drenched in sweat and tears, and he sees it over and over and he can't change it and he can't stop it, and it doesn't _matter_ that he didn't technically kill this iteration of a brother because in the end all he has left are his bloody hands and when he's awake he can't feel anything anymore. The world is pale and dead as bone.

Daryl is here. Like God, bearing silent witness to his sin. Unforgiving. As he should be. 

So he asks her if she'll be good for him and she manages an awkward nod and he shoves her forward, making her stumble, collide face-first with a tree, and a broken cry rips out of her as she only just manages to catch herself. He gets a glimpse of scraped palms as he lunges forward and then he's grabbing her wrists and dragging them behind her with one hand, pinning them at the small of her back as he fumbles with his belt. 

This is going to be bad. Worse than the other times. It's not a decision he made. He just knows. 

It's inevitable. 

He yanks it free with a harsh clink of the buckle and wraps it around her wrists, loops it through, jerks it tight. Her cheek is jammed against the rough bark and he presses close behind her, gripping her hair again, teeth at the corner of her jaw as he rocks his hips and grinds against her ass. 

“You feel that? Slut, feel what I got for you? Want it in your dirty pussy?” She whimpers hoarsely and he bites her, hard. More marks they'll almost certainly all see. They'll see and he won't be able to look at any of them. Not in the eye. Even if they're not sure. “Ain't fucked you yet. Been saving you up. Want me to take that cunt now?” 

Nothing. He pushes her against the trunk, just short of smacking her face into it, and with the other hand he cups her tit and digs his fingers in and _twists_. “ _Tell me,_ bitch.” 

Maybe this was in him the whole time. Maybe a bullet left it there in its passing. 

“Fuck me,” she croaks. She doesn't sound like she wants it. She sounds like she wants to cry and can't get there. She sounds utterly hopeless. “Rick, I want- I want you to-” 

“Tell me,” he hisses through bared teeth, “or I'll beat your ass and leave you here.” 

“I want you to fuck me.” Choked. Dull. Barely recognizable, her brow against the bark and her hair hanging in her face in tangled strands. Already a wreck. “Fuck my dirty pussy.” 

_Christ, make me feel something. Anything. Make me feel something so later I won't have to feel anything at all._

_Make me hurt._

“There you go. Knew you could do it.” Holding her in place with a hand on the back of her neck, groping at his fly with the other. He's just about to bust through his zipper. He's never as hard as he is when he's with her like this, as if his body can only respond to rage now, as if hurting is the only language it understands and the only thing in which his dick can take any interest. No love. Nothing gentle. Those things are fucking lies. There's only senseless death and pointless blood and the horrific absurdity of Daryl Dixon’s corpse on an ugly tile floor, tossed into the trunk of a car, left behind and gone forever. 

Lying here, motionless, not once looking away. The dead, Rick supposes numbly, have no need for squeamishness. 

He gets his fly down, worms his fingers in and takes hold of his aching cock, draws it out and hisses again at the cool of the air on the slick head, but then he's abandoning himself and turning his attention back to her, reaching around and clumsily pulling her own fly open, yanking her jeans down her hips. They oblige easier than he would have believed, stopping at her upper thigh with her panties half accompanying them, and after he gives them both one more ruthless shove he goes for the knife at her belt. 

Not _his_ knife. Not that one. 

He wishes that one wasn't even here. 

A panicked squeak rips out of her when she feels the blade against her skin. He didn't consciously intend this part, but at that noise something awful lifts its ugly head in fresh interest, _why the fuck not go this far,_ and he applies additional pressure, laughing. “Feel that too? Yeah, honey, if you're a problem it could get real fuckin’ bad for you.” Bared teeth again at her the ridge of her shoulder. “Don't think I wouldn't gut you like a pretty little pig. Don't you _dare_ think I wouldn't do that.” 

She stiffens, her breath coming in trembling gasps, and he slips the blade under the waistband of her panties and jerks the edge upward. They're old, thin, and they tear easily. Other side at her hip and they're sliding down her legs, snagged at the last second on the point of the blade. 

“Said you'd be quiet. I don't trust you.” He plucks them off the knife and wads them up in his fist, pinches her jaw between his thumb and fingertips. “Open up, slut. Open wide.” 

He squeezes viciously but he doesn't need to; she's opening to him as he stuffs the torn cloth past her lips and into her mouth, stuffs her full until her jaw is strained wide as he said. Head turned like this, he can see her better, and tears are streaming down her face, a line of bright scratches across one cheek, and for a moment he can't move at all. 

Except he leans in close, and his hand loosens. 

He could say he's sorry. Because he is. He could say he's sorry, this is so fucked up and they shouldn't, they have to stop, they have to go see Denise and they don't have to tell her everything, don't have to tell her about _this,_ but this is _sick_ and it's not helping anything and sooner or later something is going to happen that they can't come back from. 

As if they could now. 

_He_ would hate it. He would despise it. Horror and disgust - and agonized bewilderment. He wouldn't understand. He could never understand this. 

He was too good. 

_Man, how can you_ do _this to her?_

_You_ love _her._

Her tears on his lips. Her tears and Daryl’s blood, her salt and his iron. Swallowing. Taking both into himself. Brow against her temple, so close to nuzzling her, he can still walk it back. He doesn't have to do this. If he needs to _feel,_ there are other ways. If she needs him to help her feel, there are other ways there too.

 _We get to come back._ He grits his teeth.

 _Liar._

He shoves her face against the trunk once more, palm cupping the back of her head, takes his cock in his hand and grinds in a slow undulation against her, leaving wet smears on her bare skin. Overhead birds are screaming in the naked skeletal trees, crashing from branch to branch, black shadows fluttering at the edges of the world. 

“Gonna fuck you now,” he growls. _Oh no. No. Beth, honey, no. I'm so sorry._ “Sweetheart, I'm gonna fuck you till you _bleed_.” 

She moans, low and lost, and the moan twists up into a muffled scream as he drags her ass back and plunges into her.

She's tight. Too tight, clenching around him as if to block his passage, but she's also so _wet,_ was probably wet before he even grabbed her, wet and hungry and ashamed of it and needing him to fuck that shame into her, all her guilt, make her feel its burn. Her bound hands bounce against the small of her back as he withdraws and thrusts in again, hard enough and deep enough to punch another cry out of her, and as pleasure jolts through him he sees a shadow moving at the corner of his eye, far too big to be a bird. 

Cold blue eyes on his back. Icily disappointed.

 _Oh, Rick. Why. You weren't too far gone. Neither was she. Didn't you know that? I am, sure. Doesn't mean you have to be._

_You shouldn’t be so eager to follow me._

_“Fuck,_ you whore.” Another thrust, and then he's found a rhythm, pounding hard with the smack of their colliding skin echoing off the trees, his coarse panting. “God, you filthy worthless little _cunt,_ you’re just a hole for me to fill up, you know that?” Ponytail like a handle, her head back so far she's staring up at the sky with eyes puffy and red from crying. “So fuckin’ _tight._ You a virgin? Can't be, you takin’ it like this _-_ ” 

He asked her once before and never got an answer. No idea where the question came from. No fucking idea. Later he won't want to think about it. Won't want to know. Won't want to think about any of it and what it means, because she squeezes her weeping eyes shut and somehow manages a nod. 

_Was._

He almost drops to the ground and vomits. Thinks he might. Might actually do it. She could be agreeing that she's a filthy cunt, worthless, a hole for him to fill, but he knows it's none of those things, and he closes his own eyes and bites his tongue to keep back a sob. 

More than one. 

_Just finish. God, just finish it, just finish it and get her out of here and maybe this doesn't have to happen again._ But he's not finishing quickly. It's not because he's having trouble. It's not because it doesn't feel good. It feels fucking _amazing,_ or as close to amazing as he ever gets now, pleasure a blinding throb behind his eyes, searing through his nerves. He's never fucked anyone like this. It's never been so horribly _good_ like this. Terrible dark power surging through him, sparking lightning in his spine as he fucks her so hard his teeth rattle and the sounds in her throat meld together into one single long strangled wail. The obscenities meld together too, the abuse he's hurling at her, and he no longer has any idea what he's saying, only that it has to hurt. Has to hurt her as bad as anything else he's doing. So she's not alone in the act of torturing herself. 

So he's not alone either. 

He fucks her until those sounds are all he can hear - him, her, the slapping of their bodies, sticky squelch of his cock in her, and over it all the buzz of blunt, anguished rage in his head. Not at her. He doesn't even know what he's so angry at. But it swirls around them, bears him up, and he imagines walkers closing in from all sides, coming to rip them apart while he's still inside her, killing them both as he drives into her because he _will not fucking stop now._

Can't. Too far. 

Everything in him winds into a hot coil and all at once he's groping around and down and between her legs, looking for and finding the nub at the apex of her lips - so _swollen,_ swollen like a point of impact, and seconds after he's attacking her with rough fingertips she's coming with a jerking spasm like she's been shot in the head. 

He barely notices when he follows her, hand on her tit again and a ragged whine forced through his teeth. Barely notices that he's pulsing into her, buried so deep, her cunt so tight around him. 

The rest of his attention is locked onto Daryl standing beside the tree and staring at him, face for once entirely unreadable, a thin and almost delicate line of blood trickling down his cheek from the hole in his brow like a tear. 

Living Daryl would be repulsed by this tableau. Dead Daryl doesn't even look particularly surprised. 

Rick gapes at him, shuddering and breathless, and Daryl turns without a word and walks away. Before he silently enters the shadows of the trees, Rick sees the blown-out gory horror that is the back and top of his head. 

It might not have actually been that bad. He can't remember anymore, not clearly. It's not like it matters. 

The rest of the world floods back in as if Daryl’s departure toggled a _mute_ setting and he's aware of all of it: his jeans sagging loose around his thighs, his trembling knees, the jab of pain where the edge of his belt buckle is digging into his hip with every shift of Beth’s shaking arms. Every part of her is shaking, in a way that - in his estimation - has far more in common with pain and fear than exhausted pleasure. If he wasn't holding her up, she would probably just collapse.

If he wasn't still inside her. Softening, but deep. 

He keeps his hold on her as he withdraws with a low moan, steps back enough to see the insides of her thighs streaked with come and blood, and then for a second or two the blood washes over his vision and he can't see anything at all. 

_Sweetheart, I'm gonna fuck you till you bleed._

His hands are on autopilot when they unwind the belt from around her wrists and tug it free. They're on autopilot when they pull her panties out of her mouth and drop them to the ground like any trash. All of him is on autopilot as he lowers her down to huddle against the tree, quivering, her face still wet and blotchy from crying, her eyes blank. Autopilot as he pulls his jeans back up, slides the belt into place. Makes himself as presentable as he can. The movements are perfunctory. Careless in the sense that he literally doesn't care. 

Literally going through the motions. 

Looking down at her, her hair lank with sweat and sticking to her cheeks and neck, her own jeans pulled down near her knees, her scraped cheek and palms, bruises rising on her wrists and throat. He thought _wreck_ earlier and that's exactly correct. She's a pile of wreckage. 

He could say something to the rest of them about a run-in with a walker. He doesn't look great either. It would explain away the scrapes. Maybe the bruises - to oblivious people who didn't look closely. But Maggie is not oblivious. Neither is Carol, or Glenn. Michonne is about as far as you can get from oblivious. 

Carl is not oblivious. _Christ._ Carl is not in the least oblivious. 

He brought his gun. It's only a fraction of a second, where he considers the option the possession of that gun presents, but it exists. 

Part of her might even thank him. 

She's sitting up straighter, still trembling but now more focused. Hugging herself and looking at him with her bruised jaw working slightly. He can't begin to define what he sees in her eyes - but it's not altogether unfamiliar. 

Maybe he just did what he did to her. Maybe she had it done to her. In the end it doesn't matter who was doing what. They're both in the same damn boat. Have been since Atlanta. Out there too long. 

Out there together.

When she starts to gather herself - retrieving her knife from where he dropped it, retrieving the rags of her panties as well and using them to wipe away the worst of the blood, working her jeans back up her thighs and dragging herself to her feet - she moves slowly, painfully, face screwed up in a sharp wince as she zips her fly. Vaguely he wonders if she'll be able to walk without help, but he doesn't help. Doesn't go near her. He stands there, watching silently with his hands loose at his sides, as she takes an unsteady step forward. 

Another. 

She might need help. But she won't let him help her, not unless she has to in order to keep things from looking too obviously suspicious. What just happened, just now: that's the extent of the _help_ she's willing to accept from him. 

Might be the only help he can give her, anyway.

He follows her, drifting through a cold fog. No snares. No food to bring back. All they're bringing back is a different kind of nothing. If they're _lucky_ that's all they're bringing back, because he didn't pull out of her when he should have and _Jesus fucking Christ._

_Jesus fucking Christ, Beth, I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, and it doesn't have to happen again, we don't have to_ do _this, it was never supposed to_ be _like this, this is everything he would hate. I'm sorry. I didn't want to._

Liar.

He says nothing to her the whole way back. She says nothing to him. Nevertheless, by the time they're at the gates they've somehow gotten their stories straight anyway. Someone coming in banged up isn't all that unusual. No one looks too close. 

Home is going to be a different story entirely. 

He trails her up the street in the edge of dusk, and as a wind gusts between the houses, he hears it. Voice just behind his ear, quiet and rough. 

_Ain’t us, man. Ain't her. Ain't you. Shit, brother, this ain't_ you _._

_Unless it is._


End file.
